


fracture

by lupinely



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, back alleys, so the usual, steve defending bucky's honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1699283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinely/pseuds/lupinely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone propositions Bucky in an alleyway. Steve runs him off. Bucky is drunk and overwhelmed.</p><p>(Or: the back alley blow job fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	fracture

Bucky is drunk. Which is not surprising considering the look Steve gave him when he ordered their third round of drinks, something like, _you’re not gonna beat me at this one, Barnes._ Steve, for all that he barely weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, can hold his drink better than a hell of a lot of people that Bucky knows. But right now, his shoulder bumping against Bucky’s side, the two of them walking home in the dark, Steve’s just as drunk as Bucky.

“Fucking—terrible idea,” Steve is saying. “Why do I always let you talk me into these things?”

“Me?” Bucky asks, offended.

“Yeah, you,” Steve says. His voice is bleary, but his eyes clear, blue. 

“I’ve never talked you into anything in my entire life,” Bucky says. “I’m pretty sure I’ve actually talked you out of stuff before.”

“Not _fucking_ likely,” Steve says, vehemently, and Bucky just leaves it at that, because he’s not quite sure what the hell they’re talking about anymore. His blood is running hot, pleasantly warm beneath his skin, the pulse of his heart, the point of contact between him and Steve when their arms brush against each other, the swish-swish noise of their jacket sleeves. He wants nothing more than to go back to their apartment, to crawl into bed beside Steve—because he always crawls into bed beside Steve when they come home in the middle of the night, drunk, and in the morning, hungover, they fail to mention it—and sleep, just sleep, without worrying about whether Steve’s gonna get fired, or if Bucky has enough money scraped together for another winter. 

He’s thinking about these things—the going home and falling into bed, not the rest of it—and not thinking so much about where he’s going, the tread of his feet, footfalls. He and Steve cut through one of the side alleys on the way to their apartment; it’s late and dark but the two of them together have never been afraid of anything, and they certainly aren’t going to start now. But they’re drunk, too, and sometimes stupid, and that’s why Bucky doesn’t notice the other guy in the alley until he shoves Bucky up against the wall and lets him bounce off it.

“You got a nice mouth,” the man says, and it takes Bucky a moment, a weird long drawn out moment, to realize that he’s talking to him; “you wanna put it to use for me or do you want me to make you?”

“Fuck off,” Steve says from somewhere on Bucky’s left. Bucky can’t see him, his head spinning. He blinks, rapidly, to clear it.

The guy looks kinda familiar. Bucky blinks some more and realizes, with a cold short burst, that this guy knows about the men Bucky has gotten on his knees before in other alleys in the dark, and must not know—or doesn’t care—about the men whose eyes Bucky has blacked and noses he’s broken, because this guy doesn’t look scared of Bucky at all. Just hungry: that dark gnawing hunger. 

Steve doesn’t know. About the alleys, handjobs in the dark. It’s not because—it just hasn’t—it doesn’t come up in conversation, okay, that’s not really the sort of thing you just say to someone—not even when you think they might be the only person on this goddamn planet who you could tell everything to—

The guy ignores Steve, doesn’t even bother to shove him out of the way or tell him to get his ass out of here. Bucky wishes he would. He doesn’t want Steve here, suddenly wants Steve to be anywhere but here, please God. 

Bucky’s shoulders against the wall behind him, cold bricks, imprint of pain where the back of his head rebounded. He wants to go home. God, what a fucking joke, what a nightmare, that Steve is here and Bucky just wants to be anywhere else and he can’t fucking believe this would happen to him, now, like this.

“Well?” the guy says. He starts to advance on Bucky. _Goddamn it,_ Bucky thinks, _you asshole, I’ll fucking break your teeth,_ but before he can gather himself—before he can remember how to make a fist, how to snarl, how to be brutal—Steve does it all for him.

“I _said,”_ says Steve, sliding between Bucky and the man, his fists upraised; “fuck _off.”_

The guy blinks down at Steve.

“Are you fuckin kidding me?” he asks.

“Not fucking likely,” Steve says for the second time that night, grimly. His shoulders are tense, thin, but stronger than they look—if not, maybe, strong enough for this; but his heart of steel, the metal behind his teeth, the iron in his blood: this, Bucky knows, for its strength. Steve doesn’t look very drunk anymore. He doesn’t look very drunk at all: just focused, whipcord-tight and angry.

The guy looks at him—at Steve, at the way Bucky is getting himself together, slowly—and shakes his head. “More trouble than your mouth is worth,” he says, and turns to walk away. Steve reaches down as if to pick up one of the loose bricks on the ground by his feet and hurl it at him, but Bucky reaches out and catches Steve by the wrist.

“Just let him go,” he mutters. He feels too big for his limbs, embarrassed, his head aching. He doesn’t want Steve to talk about this, to think about this, to wake up and remember it in the morning.

“Fuck him,” Steve says, still white-hot angry, nearly shaking with it. He doesn’t look at Bucky, doesn’t make eye contact. “He thinks he can just—get away with this, thinks he can just treat you this way—he doesn’t even fucking know you—”

“Steve,” Bucky says, tired, quietly.

Steve turns to face him. The color is high in his face, his cheeks pink, his eyes bright. He’s breathing hard, and Bucky can hear the faint trace of a wheeze, sure to worsen given a few moments’ time. Steve looks so angry, and lost, and helpless, too, in a way Bucky doesn’t want to think about: he never wants Steve to be this helpless and at wrong ends, not sure of his footing, of where he stands and where he wants to be. Steve looks torn, the brick still in his left hand, and his chest rises and falls, faint whistling noise, and Bucky is so overwhelmed, in this terrible, fractured instant: overwhelmed by this kid, this fighter, his heart and his sincerity and the swell of his bottom lip; by Steve.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, fuck it, fuck it, and pushes Steve backwards against the opposite wall, flush against the cracking bricks, and Steve’s mouth parts open, he exhales, but Bucky reaches down and catches his fingers on the hem of Steve’s pants, his belt buckle.

“Can I,” Bucky says, and doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for, hopes Steve understands.

He can’t see Steve’s face in the shadows. He fumbles with the belt, undoes it, hovers over the button on Steve’s pants.

“I’m,” Steve says, “I don’t—Bucky—”

“Can I?” Bucky asks again, because he won’t, he’ll stop if Steve says to, of course he fucking will, he just wants, so desperately, to touch, skin on skin, the flush and warmth of Steve’s blood—

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice cracking a little on it; “yeah, okay, yeah,” and Bucky drops to his knees right there in front of Steve, his fingers snagging on the button of Steve’s pants and pulling them open, his fingertips brushing against the smooth warm skin of Steve’s abdomen. Steve shudders beneath his touch like he can’t believe what’s happening, like there are chills going down his spine. 

Steve’s already half-hard and Bucky doesn’t know why that makes his breath catch in his chest, why that matters, why it would ever matter to think that Steve would ever want Bucky’s hands on him, anywhere. Bucky’s too drunk still for any sort of precision or particular proficiency; he just wraps his hand around the base of Steve’s cock, tongues the tip (listens to the way the timbre of Steve’s breath changes when he does), and takes Steve in his mouth, all at once.

Steve makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and the fingers of his right hand dig into Bucky’s shoulder, bullet points of pressure. He dropped the brick somewhere along the way, and his left hand is scrabbling at the wall behind him, searching for purchase. Bucky closes his eyes, hollows his cheeks, and when he looks up he can only see Steve’s head thrown back, the line of his neck in the dim light.

He puts both his hands to either side of Steve’s hips, braces them against his slender hipbones and holds him steady. His head is buzzing so that he can barely think; there’s only the warm skin beneath his hands and Steve’s fingers pulling at his shoulder, the gravel beneath his knees and the way it’s so easy not to think about anything, not to worry, to just let everything narrow down to this moment, this point in time, Steve, the salt and sweat on his skin and on Bucky’s tongue.

Steve’s knees are shaking. It’s fucking adorable, is what it is, and his hand slides up the back of Bucky’s neck, hesitates, and then runs through Bucky’s hair. He’s making a quiet noise, a low continued sound, and Bucky can’t focus on that for too long or he thinks he’s going to lose his mind. 

He pulls away, traces a line along the underside of Steve’s cock with his tongue, curls around the head. Steve is still unsteady, held up by the presence of Bucky’s hands at his sides, his hand in Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s knees are starting to ache, a faraway unimportant pain, but there’s the realer pressure of someone stumbling on them, finding them like this, that Bucky would much rather avoid.

“C’mon, Steve,” he says, and Steve’s hand tightens in his hair, and Bucky starts to blow him again, faster this time, messier, keeping a quick pace, and all at once Steve is steady again, lucid, but his hand falls from Bucky’s hair to his shoulders to try and push him away, a warning—

Bucky won’t be pushed away. Steve comes, all at once, silently now, his knees shaking, his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, one of Bucky’s hands still on his waist, the other around his cock again, and Bucky lets him come down his throat, waits until Steve is spent and his hands are loosening on his shoulders before he pulls away, small sigh, and starts to do up the button of Steve’s pants, his buckle, while Steve remains motionless above him, staring up at the sky.

Bucky gets, unsteadily, to his feet once Steve is fully dressed again. He’s looking down at Steve again now, and it’s strange, disorienting. He’s not very drunk anymore. He still wants to go home.

Steve’s hand reaches down for the hem of Bucky’s pants—hovers there, unsure, and then brushes against Bucky’s belt buckle.

Bucky swats his hand away. “C’mon, kid,” he says, quietly, and Steve lets his hand fall, swallows, the line of his throat. The two of them make their silent and unsteady way back home, side-by-side; and when they wake up the next morning, true to form, neither of them says anything about it at all.


End file.
